


Familiar Faces

by Dragons_and_Merlins_Beard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Victor Trevor - Freeform, lets pretend season 4 never happened, post-season 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:41:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragons_and_Merlins_Beard/pseuds/Dragons_and_Merlins_Beard
Summary: After Sherlock is left alone in 221B Baker Street, he ends up finding company in an old friend.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	1. Victor Trevor

**Author's Note:**

> 2020 and we're writing Johnlock? Certainly. What else am I to do during a pandemic other than rewatch Sherlock and write some fanfiction.

Sherlock had found his days alone in 221B Baker street to be anything but peaceful. At one point in his life, he might have relished in the silence and ability to think without interruption or being badgered about how tidy he keeps his living space. However, after being in the company of John Watson for all those years, loneliness seemed to strike him. John's chair was always empty and Sherlock had moved it out of the living room several times, only to place it right back in its spot. It belonged there, whether John was there to occupy it or not. 

John was currently in a bad mental space, debating divorce with Mary, or whoever she truly was, while also expecting their child together. They had tried for a few months to make things work, but the efforts seemed futile. They had separated for the moment being, but Sherlock couldn't tell how often they interacted. He only knew John wanted nothing to do with him. He was too busy with his own troubles to notice Sherlock's spiral back to a place of darkness. 

John was not there to stop him, stop him from slipping back into old habits that started back in uni. The rush of drugs in his veins, which allowed him to compose extraordinary pieces on his violin and crack the hardest cases Lestrade sent his way. Without John there to aid him with his detective work, cocaine would have to fill in as his helpful partner. When he would come down from a high, he would find himself slumped in John's chair, gazing into the kitchen which was an absolute disaster. Rotting flesh sitting in Petri dishes on the kitchen table, unimaginable things in the fridge, and papers scattered on every surface, including the floor. Mrs. Hudson would tidy it up, she didn't even complain anymore or remind Sherlock she wasn't his housekeeper - she seemed to understand the state Sherlock had been sent in. 

Cases flew by and solving puzzles didn't ignite the pure joy and euphoria they once did. Only the drugs seemed to get him close to that feeling anymore. Mrs. Hudson would attempt to confiscate them when she saw them, but Sherlock was far more clever and found the best hiding spots - or he would go through a newly bought batch fast enough before hiding would be necessary. 

He found himself in strange places around London trying to buy his euphoric nectar, and one day, he found himself in a small cafe, drinking coffee, and waiting on a certain person to show up to make a certain exchange. The coffee had started to go cold, and Sherlock's mind couldn't even focus enough to finish it. His eyes picked apart the people around him, enjoying warm drinks and baked goods. Ordinary people lived such simple and easy lives. One scone and a tea on a chilly Monday morning, and their week was made.

As he took a sip of the now room-temperature coffee, he felt a tap on the shoulder. He blinked, wondering if he'd imagined it as he cocked his head around. His eyes registered a very familiar face. Victor Trevor. He blinked again and opened his mouth. No words came out. "Sherlock Holmes." A grin formed on the man's face. Those deep brown eyes stared intensely into Sherlock's - as they had many times, years ago. "What a dingy little place to find you again." 

Sherlock blinked again, his eyes moving down to his neck, where a bit of his chest was exposed where he hadn't buttoned the top of his shirt. He remembered the expanse of deep, golden skin under that shirt. "Yes. First time at this particular location. A bit out of my normal range in London." Sherlock finally responded. His eye's met Victor's again, "I thought you were back in India with your family, helping run your father's business." 

"Ah, yes. But when your sister becomes controlling and unbearable to work with, you come back to London." Victor tsked, finding himself in the seat across from Sherlock. "Shocking, to see your university fling jumping from a building on the telly. Just as shocking to see he was still alive afterward." His tone was of humor, but something in his eyes showed another kind of emotion. "Frankly, I'd quite hoped I'd see you at some point while I was here. Though I promise this meeting is only coincidental. I suppose I might have given you a ring at some point, but the universe does seem to work in funny ways." 

Victor hadn't aged a day, it seemed, since university. His eyes still were bright, and his face smooth. He remembered that face, when he was telling Sherlock he was leaving the country. That he would keep in contact. However, neither of them kept the consistency to keep in touch. A fling was nothing close to what they had, but it was so long ago, perhaps that's all it seemed to Victor now. 

"Yes, well, it was so lovely to see you again." Sherlock's words came out slightly bitter, however, he didn't need Victor there when his dealer showed up, most likely looking gaunt, and shady - which would give away to Victor why Sherlock was there immediately. "I think I was about to leave. Got a case I need to look at, at Scotland Yard." 

"That busy? Not willing to catch up with an old friend, Will?" Victor asked, inquisitive eyes; he saw through Sherlock. He always had. It made him a bit of a dangerous companion to have around. "Look, if you hate my guts still, then I understand, but say so. I will leave you be." Both of them knew Sherlock did not hate his guts. He hated that had left him, alone. It was not often he found people in his life that understood him and did not become offended by his abrasive manner. Those people always seemed to leave it seemed. 

"Ah, resorting back to old names. You know I don't go by that anymore." Sherlock responded. 'Will'. Horrifically ordinary of a name. "I believe we can catch up another time, Victor. I can tell by your socks, that you will be here for an extended stay." 

"Ah, the clever Sherlock. Yes, I will be here for at least a couple of months. Perhaps longer." Victor's eyes roamed Sherlock's face for a moment, "So, fine, yes. Here." He fished a card out of his trouser pocket, holding it out for Sherlock to take, "My number is on there. Call or text if you would like to meet up properly." 

Sherlock's fingers brushed against Victor's as he slowly pulled the card from his grasp. He remembered once when he had felt those fingers entangled in his curls, petting him after rather intense activity. He cleared his throat and quickly shoved the card in his pocket, "Yes, thank you." He hated feeling so flustered and out of depth.

Victor paid another long glance at Sherlock, a small smile on his lips, before turning around and heading to the front counter where his coffee was ready. Sherlock looked down at his mobile as Victor walked out of the door. His card seemed to burn in Sherlock's pocket. He wanted so badly to call him, or run after him before he went too far. Oh, how he missed touch. It was like a completely different drug, causing the firing of all the right neurons. His mind seemed to push forward all of the memories that had been locked away for a long time - deep in his mind palace. Victor Trevor. He remembered trying to hop away as his dog latched on to his leg in the middle of campus. 

_Oh god! I'm so sorry! Bruno! Let go!_

Victor had taken him to the nurse as he bled from his ankle. His dog had seemed to soften up after that. Somehow the incident led to dinner. Dinner led to another. And another. And soon enough, Sherlock had his first, and only... _boyfriend._ He made him stay off the drugs. Victor had seen family succumb to them, and refused to be around Sherlock if he was going to partake in it. He held him through withdrawal, even when Sherlock screamed and cursed at him. 

Sherlock was taken out of his thought by the jostling of the table he was at. He looked up. Ah. Just another greasy looking man about to hand him a couple of plastic bags. "You're late." 

"Yeah, yeah, can't help it, mate. You pick the dodgiest areas to do these things." He huffed. Sherlock couldn't remember the man's name, it didn't matter. "I told you that you can just stop by my flat, or vice versa." 

Sherlock shook his head, "Can't have anyone knowing what I'm up to." He pulled out a small, folded envelope, and pushed it over the table, "No one here will pay attention. Simple." 

"Public place? Seems unwise, I can't be busted you know. Not again." The man uttered as he pulled a small box out his pocket, it had a ribbon around it, like a Christmas gift, "I have to package these things so discretely if we do it like this." 

"A ribbon is not exactly discrete." Sherlock mused, happily taking his little gift. He immediately stood up, glancing once more at the man before exiting the building. The little gift sat against Victor's card in his pocket. Frustrating. Emotion was so frustrating. 

* * *

The telly was on, crap telly as John had always called it. Cases were dry and Mrs. Hudson had a meltdown when seeing the kitchen that morning. She told Sherlock no more body parts. That rule wouldn't last, but it would be in place before she calmed from it - and once the smell of rotting flesh aired out of the flat. So here Sherlock sat, his mind stimulated by the cocaine in his system. His body was vibrating as he sat in his chair, staring at the television, arms wrapped around his knees. 

Between his thumb and index finger was Victor's card. He held it tightly. He couldn't call, not now. He was high. How disappointed would Victor Trevor be to find out Sherlock Holmes was just a junkie, after all these years. Still a junkie. He remembered, the tears in Victor's eyes when he found Sherlock high off his arse. Dangerously high. He had grabbed him by the arms, angry, upset, confused, as to why Sherlock would do such a thing. It stopped after that night. 

Sherlock broke his eyes away from the telly, to look at the card. It was useless now, his mind had placed Victor's number in a nice, cushy room in the mind palace. He got up and set it over on the desk where his mobile phone sat. He pressed it, seeing no notifications on his phone. Nothing. Not even a text from Mycroft, scolding him or offering him rehabilitation of some sort. All paid by him. No message from John either. He had texted him that morning, asking if he wanted to look into the case Sherlock was currently working - however, with no case, this was a lie to get John there. 

He wasn't sure how it happened but suddenly Victor's number was on his phone, and the dial tone was filling the room. His heart pounded even faster - like a nervous school girl. When it picked up he sucked in a sharp breath. 

"Hello?" Victor's voice, of course. 

Again, Sherlock was speechless. His hand was clasped around his phone, trembling. There was far too long of a pause and Sherlock's mind somehow went blank. 

"Ah. Sherlock?" Of course, he knew. He knew it was him. 

A small laugh left the back of Sherlock's throat, "Yes, Sherlock. That's me. How are things, Vic?" 

There was a pause. "Are you alright, Will?" His voice was soft, and it ignited a strange feeling in Sherlock's stomach, "I honestly didn't expect a call, or at least not one tonight." 

Sherlock stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room, staring at his phone, "Yes. Of course. Just... just bored. As you know, that is a frequent occurrence I experience." He let out a breath that he wasn't aware he had been holding in, "I... are you bored?"

Another pause, "Sure, sure, I guess. Was just eating dinner, with a glass of wine. Just finished a chat on the phone with my dear mother." Something in his voice made it apparent that the chat had not been a pleasant one. 

"I have wine... here. At the flat. 221B Baker Street." He didn't have wine. Why would he say that? He rarely engaged in drinking alcohol, that was not his narcotic of choice. 

"You... are you asking me to come over, Sherlock?" Victor chuckled, "There must be something wrong in that case." Neither of them said anything for a beat, then, "I can come over. I'd love to see how Sherlock Holmes keeps his flat." 

Then panic struck Sherlock. No. No. He was high. Victor would leave the moment he got there. "I - wait. Perhaps not tonight." Sherlock was certainly panicking. He was sweating. "On second thought, I really am not feeling so well." He emphasized with a small cough. 

"Uh. Well. Okay." Victor said quietly, "Sure, well, we can postpone. Wednesday night, I haven't got anything on. Maybe I could bring you some take out. God knows you hardly remember to eat." 

Sherlock found himself smiling, "Yes, yes, that sound quite pleasant. Well, I shall see you... Wednesday."

"Wednesday. See you then, Will." Then the phone clicked. Sherlock became aware of the empty flat once again, and the mindless babble coming from the telly. Alone. Stupid. He could be not alone. Victor could be here in this very flat. Being charming. Talking about everything he had accomplished since he'd last seen him. Clear back in uni. 

His thumbs moved over the keyboard on his phone. _I am foolish. You could be here. However, I am a disappointment. I am high. SH_

After he sent it, he threw his phone at the couch and sat back down in front of the telly. 

The response was surprisingly quick. 

_Oh, Will. You are not a disappointment._


	2. Stay the Night

After Victor had texted, Sherlock was too ashamed to respond. He eventually found himself trying to busy himself in the kitchen. He was wiping out the fridge, which was entirely empty. Mrs. Hudson had swept through it and pitched everything (it had only been body parts from Bart's, no real morsel of food). He didn't often clean, but sometimes, when high, the motivation and urgency to do so struck him. He had no cleaning supplies, but did have a variety of bottled chemicals he used for various experiments - and as a graduate chemist, it was no struggle to whip up a cleaning concoction. 

The fridge was sticky and smelled atrocious. He felt a tiny wince of guilt, knowing Mrs. Hudson, a tidy person, had to witness such a state. After he had finished throwing papers from past cases in the shredder, he felt himself coming down from his high, a headache emerging behind his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes for a moment. He could go for another round and sleep off his come down later. 

His thought was cut off by the doorbell. It was a ring similar to that of a client. That piqued his interest, he hadn't an interesting one for a while. A lot of love scandals and missing pets. His mind momentarily drifted to the possibility of it being John - he rang the doorbell now when, or more so if, he ever visited now. Sherlock hated it. It felt so disturbing. This was still John's home, he just chose not to be there. 

It was nearly midnight, not necessarily an uncommon time for a client. Midnight meant urgency, something had just happened. They most likely will be in slight shock, pale, blabbering. It was a bit frustrating for Sherlock, they took too long to get their story out. He wondered if Mrs. Hudson may get it, she usually did. She usually was also up at late hours, watching telly or reading. Or taking her herbal soothers. 

He then heard her light footsteps going to fetch whoever was out there. He stood by the kitchen table, looking over it for a moment. His microscope was set up, and many empty graduated cylinders and beakers sat next to it. Mrs. Hudson had washed them and set them to dry. Quite endearing. Though, she might have dumped dangerous chemicals down the sink without knowing. 

"Sherlock! You've got a visitor." Mrs. Hudson called, footsteps approaching the flat. 

Visitor? That was different. She always said client, if they were a client. He tensed, his eyes moving towards the door, hand clenching over the back of a kitchen chair. The door pushed open, Mrs. Hudson came through first, a strange smile on her face, "You didn't tell me you had company coming over."

"Well, I didn't exactly tell him I was going to be here." Victor's voice. Sherlock's stomach dropped. While he wasn't high off his arse, he still was slightly compromised. Victor then appeared, standing in his flat, looking over at Sherlock who was frozen in the kitchen. 

Mrs. Hudson looked at both of them, "Well I'll be off!" She passed Sherlock before leaving, "Please, dear, let me know if you need anything - cookies, snacks..." She had a smile. 

"Yes, yes, Mrs. Hudson, thank you, off you go now, go take your herbal soothers," Sherlock said bluntly, feeling mildly embarrassed. He looked over at Victor, "Hello. Wasn't expecting you tonight." 

"Well. You know, I still do worry about you." Victor said softly, taking a step in the kitchen. He took a moment to acquaint himself with the flat. He smiled as he saw the morbid decorations and the cluttered mess here and there, "This is quite what I expected, really. A bit tidier than I imagine, but I would think your landlady is filling in for Mummy and helps tidy up."

"I don't ask her to. Frankly, she messed up my organization." Sherlock responded quickly, "I lied about the wine. Don't really have that. John used to-" He cut off. John? Don't talk about John. 

Victor noticed, and locked eyes, "Ah, yes. Doctor Watson. I've read his blog. He captures your essence quite well. Sad to see he isn't living with you anymore. You always did need someone to look after you." He paused, "It seems you fell in love with him." 

Sherlock's heart seemed to stop. How could he still read him so well? It was unfair and uncomfortable to have someone deducing _him_. "I- that's... that's none of your business and not true. Really, Victor, you cannot invite yourself over and make false accusations and-"

"Will. Calm down. I didn't mean to rattle your cage." Victor smiled, looking away for a moment, "I heard you were shot as well, in hospital for a little while." He stepped closer, "Now, I promise this is not a deduction, unlike you, I keep social media, and your mother happens to be my friend on Facebook." 

Sherlock scoffed at that, rolling his eyes. Mummy had truly betrayed him on that one. He cringed at the thought of her post, pictures of him incapacitated in a hospital bed, high on morphine (legally at this point). "That is utterly ridiculous." He glared at Victor. "Listen, as I said. Wednesday would be a better day. I am... cleaning, tonight. The kitchen. Wretched mess." 

"Ah. High cleaning." Victor quipped, "Must be. I've never witnessed you clean after _you_ got clean."

Sherlock didn't respond to that. Victor already knew he was high, he had admitted to him, there was no point to verify it once again. No need to go into an explanation of his awful habits once again. He turned and resumed wiping out the fridge, silently. 

Victor didn't leave, he wouldn't be ignored by Sherlock, he knew how the mad genius worked. He was such a drama queen, "I truly am not mad at you, I mean, I have no right to be. We've only just met again after years of no contact. But I had to come over. If you're high, something is wrong. You're lonely again. You've lost your... flatmate." He watched with slight amusement at Sherlock trying to clean. His eyes drifted only a few times to his arse, fit so tightly into those trousers. He was such a deliciously beautiful man. "Need help?"

Sherlock turned his head, "No. I am perfectly capable." He started to feel sweaty, and he felt his pulse behind his eyes. He really couldn't keep up this charade of cleaning for much longer. He'd need to sit in darkness, sleep, and come down from this high. 

Victor stepped closer, careful not to invade too much of Sherlock's personal space. "May I see your hand?" He held his own hand out, hoping Sherlock might give in. And he did. Victor smiled as he held Sherlock's hand between both his, dry, marks, and scars from all sorts of things. He couldn't help but brush his fingers tips over Sherlock's knuckles, and he felt the man shiver in response. He then pressed between his thumb and index finger, triggering a pressure point, he then watched Sherlock's face. Eventually, he saw the relief. 

"Forgot that trick." Sherlock remarked, look up at Victor. He forgot how tall he was, taller than him. Sherlock didn't move his hand, it felt so warm there, in Victor's. They had locked eyes, and Sherlock felt warmth in his chest, a burning warmth that almost made him feel nauseous. It pushed memories of uni forward, he could remember the exact feeling of Victor's lips against his. 

"May I?' Victor asked, and Sherlock was confused for a moment until he saw Victor's gaze below his nose. He felt slightly panicked for a moment. Was this right? Should he be doing this? 

"Yes." Sherlock's answer was so quiet, he wasn't even sure if Victor had heard until suddenly he felt Victor's soft lips against his own. Warm. He could taste the wine he'd had with his dinner. It felt so right then. He felt himself melting against Victor, the other man's hands were now in his curls, caressing them ever so softly. Victor was incredibly warm, and Sherlock realized how cold he had been. He was now pressed lightly against the fridge, and Victor held him tightly, still kissing him. Sherlock's brain was in slight overload, trying to process every strange sensation that had become so foreign to him. 

Eventually, Victor pulled away, worried he might of scared Sherlock off a bit, he looked in a bit of a shock, "Are you alright?" He swiped a thumb across Sherlock's sharp cheekbone, "I...sorry." He pulled away from him, "I guess I didn't realize how much I'd missed you." 

Sherlock took a moment to get his bearings, feeling cold again as Victor stepped away, giving him space, "No.. that was.. good. I am just not in... practice." He cleared his throat, and readjusted the collar of his shirt, "You should stay. The night. If you would like. If you're not busy." He felt his face getting warm, "Catch up."

Victor smiled, "Well, that seemed to be catching up to me." His voice was deep, and it ignited such an old spark in Sherlock. Like when he witnessed John pulling rank. He shook his head; sod John. He's not here. He's not waiting for Sherlock. Victor was here.

"I was just watching, um, crap telly." Sherlock said, shrugging.

Victor slid off his jacket and placed it over a kitchen chair, "Not sure about that one, Will. Say, do you have a chess set?"

* * *

They talked for hours, playing several rounds of chess. Both of them updated each other on their lives, Sherlock's updates were far more shocking and exciting, Victor thought. The man played with death every day it seemed. And from what Sherlock would speak of Dr. Watson, he knew, he'd fallen deeply for the man. Sherlock seemed to be hiding something when speaking briefly about the doctor's wife and their situation. There was a somewhat haunted look in Sherlock's eyes when he spoke of her. Mary. 

Victor spoke about his family, how his sister had basically sneaked her way into every crevice of their family's business and kicked Victor out of it. While their relationship severed, Victor truly realized he didn't mind. He was not a businessman, he actually, loved writing. "Perhaps I can be your new blogger." He had joked, causing a slightly awkward silence. At some point, around 3 in the morning, Victor ordered takeout from one of the few places open at that time. They sat together on the couch and ate together while Sherlock talked about his recent cases, most boring, but Victor still beamed and paid attention to every word. 

It wasn't until nearly six in the morning that they seemed to have run out of conversation and the room had gone quiet, a comfortable quiet. Victor cleaned up and did a few minutes of investigating the details of the flat before turning to Sherlock, "Shall we sleep, or do you not engage in that?" He asked with a small grin. 

Sherlock often only got a few hours of rest, his mind didn't allow him a very restful life style, "Sure. If you want, there is the couch or... there is still a bed upstairs." He offered, wondering if Victor would want space, or perhaps he wanted to accompany him in his own bed in the backroom. He registered Victor's face, slight disappointment, "Or my bed." He added.

Victor brushed a hand through his hair, a bit of nervous habit, "If you don't mind, Will. I think your bed would be most comfortable." 

Sherlock lent Victor some of his nightwear, which was incredibly comfortable, made of silk. Only the best for Sherlock. It felt weird for Sherlock, climbing into a bed, where he would not sprawl out in the middle, where another body would be occupying one side. Victor was warm next to him, and he could smell his cologne still clinging to his skin. He shifted on to his side, looking over at Victor, who was staring off at the ceiling, seeming to be thinking. "You think very loud. I can hear cogs turning." Sherlock whispered, "Do you regret to find yourself next to a sociopath tonight?" 

"You're not a sociopath, Will." Victor snorted, "Far from. Just thinking about a lot of things, really. My mother is upset with me. They didn't want me to leave. They do not appreciate London like I do. She feels very abandoned. I do feel guilt, however, I must start my life how I want it to be." He looked over at Sherlock, "Only London has Sherlock Holmes." 

"I would think my name is only unique to me, yes." Sherlock smiled, "I do hope you haven't abandoned your family to come looking for me."

"Of course not. I mean, of course, bumping into you crossed my mind. However, falling in love with a city is a completely different sort of love. I missed it. Even though my lungs will be plagued with smog every day, this is where I belong," Victor murmured, "Just need to find a flat now, or maybe a nice little house outside of the city. Hotel rooms just aren't doing it for me."

"Well, you know you are welcome to stay here until you can get something sorted," Sherlock said without thought. Victor glanced over at him. Sherlock shook his head, knowing what he was thinking, "You wouldn't be intruding. As annoying as it is, you are right. I've grown accustomed to having company over the years, and with an empty flat it does get... lonely." 

Victor grinned, "Us, living together again? Can you imagine all the trouble you're going to get me into?" He turned on to his side to face Sherlock directly, "I cannot say that it wouldn't be incredibly convenient. I've got a few walk-throughs scheduled, one for a flat, another for a house about an hour away. So I wouldn't be in your hair for too long." He pressed his hand into Sherlock's curls, wrapping them around his fingers, "Though, one could easily get lost in this mess for a while." 

Sherlock was close enough, so he leaned in and kissed him. Revisiting those soft lips; at some point, Victor had put chapstick on during his visit, they now tasted like pineapple. "I am not quite tired yet." He murmured, "Perhaps we could do something to help us sleep." Sherlock whispered, pressing his forehead against the other man's.

Victor's eyes widened, but a grin was planted on his mouth, "You naughty boy." He chuckled, placing his hand firmly on the man's hip, "I do believe the great Sherlock Holmes needs his beauty sleep, so who am I to deny helping with that?" 

Sherlock's body was practically vibrating as he would be at the peak of a high, but this was a completely different kind of high. Victor's body enveloped him and he felt as excited as he was when Lestrade brought him in a serial killer case. 


End file.
